


boughs renewed in seasons new, and buds in gardens born

by bokutoma



Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar, Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Artist Crowley (Good Omens), BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Fallen London, Heist, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Names are Power, Thief Crowley, aziraphale doesn't take shit from anyone, crowley falls in love at first sight, excessive use of vulture in a cage poetry, gabriel sucks what's new, poet and scholar aziraphale
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:34:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 10,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22979221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bokutoma/pseuds/bokutoma
Summary: crowley whiles away his time in the neath like any self-respecting citizen - by drinking, thieving, and occasionally trying to make an honest living. down in the garden, lies are about as common as pickpockets, so when a. z. fell, a man renowned for both his candid nature and his inscrutable ways, makes an appearance, crowley can't help but be intrigued.alternatively: a wronged party, a heist, and an artist who's not quite as subtle as he thinks
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 40
Kudos: 41





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i've been playing a lot of fallen london, and OH BOY does it show. not a whole lot of total accuracy, but what's the point of smashing together two of your favorite things if you don't ruin both of them
> 
> tags may change in the future, especially violence and death (it's the neath, after all; everyone dies at least once), but for now, what you see is what you get
> 
> title taken from the scheindlin translation of "vulture in a cage" by solomon ibn gabirol. if that sounds familiar to you, you're welcome. i am consistent if nothing else

Crowley, for all of his considerable charisma and wit even among the crowds of the Garden, loathes the flighty manipulations of his most familiar haunt. Perhaps this is where the best dens of iniquity reside (and the part of the city that the vast majority of his patrons frequent), but there's only so much scandal one can orchestrate and be involved in before the whole affair begins to feel a little dull. He's gifted, after all; once, there had been a full-out brawl between several Society members simply to win the admittedly lovely portrait of an apple he had been trying to auction off.

(Of course, that might have also been because he'd planted several rumors as to the secrets that lived in its background. There were none - it was a charming but otherwise unremarkable painting - but that didn't stop the wealthy masses from tricking themselves into believing otherwise.)

There are endless pursuits to enjoy here in the Neath; somehow, though, none of them seem meant for him. He has far too much scandal attached to his name to even consider performance, and he's brushed against the Constables far too many times to consider thievery. Nick something _once_ , ask a _few_ too many questions as to what Mr. Chimes wants with so many oddly shaped goblets, and you're marked for the rest of your many lives, he supposes.

He deserves more. Once, that nebulous quality had come from time spent in the Brass Embassy with the devils; all they wanted was his soul, naturally, but the danger had been a game played with pleasant competitors, and it had satisfied something unholy and desperate within him.

After a few too many close scrapes with his soul, however, he'd realized just how easily out of his depth he'd sunken without realizing. Without much fuss (other than carefully rationed false tears), he'd turned in the key for his guest room in the Embassy and gone back to the Garden.

It had been the right decision, and yet...

God, he longs for more.

It's a dull night in the Singing Mandrake - few whores dare to show their faces after the recent Constable crackdown, and without them, the randier patrons see little reason to show their faces when they can get blood of a different kind moving down at the docks. Still, Crowley has promised to work on a commission for a wealthy if indiscreet client, and even if the locale is uninspiring, money is money.

The sooner he can get Hastur out of his life, with his too dark eyes and his too pale hair, the better.

Thus, with such little attention being paid to the subject of his portrait, it's no wonder that Crowley spots the newcomer when he arrives.

Even for London, a city mired in the Neath and the past, the man has dressed archaically. It's charming, though, and if this man were to travel in the right circles, the city might see a revival of old fashions. He moves like a man with a purpose, one that extends far beyond the simple intention of a drink on a pleasant night.

From where Crowley is perched, working at a frankly alarming angle to suit Hastur's whims, he can see the new arrival order a drink and take out a small book from the inside of his jacket, and it hits him all at once that he knows this mysterious creature, or at least knows of him.

He is A. Z. Fell.

Here is the thing about the Garden: not once has someone been honest here, unless they had quite a devious reason to tell the truth.

A. Z. Fell, to Crowley's knowledge, has rarely been anything _other_ than entirely truthful. Whatever game he plays, he does so on a level that Crowley can't seem to get the shape of.

It's desperately intriguing and almost lethally sexy, and even though the smell of rot pervades his senses, he imagines he catches the scent of Surface roses.

He's going to befriend this Fell if it's the last thing he does.


	2. Chapter 2

The next time Crowley spots his quarry in the Garden, he is living life with the sort of vigor one can only demonstrate when they are sans Hastur, and A. Z. Fell has his nose buried in another book.

It's rather charming, really, how lost to the world around him the poet is, and as Crowley watches, he sips twice from an empty glass and doesn't appear to notice. What might it be like, he wonders, to care so deeply about something that the world, with all its noisy, colorful splendor, so thoroughly fades away?

Grinning in a way that he _knows_ is rakish, Crowley flashes the barkeep a few pieces of rostygold and nods at Aziraphale. "Two of what he was having?" he asks, dropping a wink with enough panache that the actors that populated the low budget theatres around here ought to have been clamoring for his mentorship.

The barkeep, cheap-ass that they are, continues to hold out their palm for more even after he's dropped the usual amount. Grumbling, Crowley fishes out ten pieces more and prays to the Church's god that this bloody poet is worth it.

At least the _drink_ seems to be worth it; he gets half a bottle of Strangling Willow for his troubles, and someone only knew how difficult those could be to acquire under any usual circumstances. Perhaps the blowhard's a bit fond of him after all.

"And my glasses?" he asks, leveling them with a fairly intimidating gaze, at least for him.

"On your face, love." Still, they bring out two for him, and if they're a bit dusty, he won't press his luck by belaboring the point.

There's a careful game to the Garden, a microcosm of the rest of the Neath. Perhaps it's less likely to leave a bloody wreck, but there's a tightrope to walk all the same. Incur a little scandal, enough to stay relevant and notable. Make some waves, enjoy the way others look at you, envy, lust, and rage in a delightful cocktail. Back off when the wrong sort of attention begins to come your way, lest you be shipped off in exile until London has forgotten about your foul misdeeds in favor of a new villain.

Crowley has always had excellent balance.

There are eyes that track him all the way to the poet's table, and not all belong to the watchers. He is desired and desirable, and perhaps on another night, he might have played into this, garnering new commissions when the eternal labor of Hastur's current request was finally completed. Tonight, though, he only has eyes for one man.

"Penny for your thoughts?" he asks as he slides into the seat across from the mysterious A. Z. Fell. Framed by the rich and peeling wood of the Singing Mandrake, the man looks like a painting of an angel, and not the avenging kind.

It makes Crowley want to frame him.

A. Z. Fell. looks up from beneath his lashes, face framed by a rather charming pair of spectacles. The look on his face is that of a man who is very put out at being interrupted, but Crowley waves the bottle in his hand, and it's nearly comical how quickly he backs down. "I should hope my thoughts are worth more than that."

The words are clipped and precise, accent clearly not that drawl of the rest of the Garden (except, perhaps, that of some _very_ convincing men and women of pleasure). Where, Crowley wonders, did he grow up? There's something of the Surface in him, all soft elegance, and Crowley, greedy man that he is, desperately wants a taste.

He is calm, though, at least for now. It wouldn't do to scare his quarry off and spoil the game.

"Probably," he acquiesces with a shrug, all loose angles. "But I'm an artist, and I'm afraid I don't have the coin to offer."

Fell looks pointedly at the expensive bottle. "Is that true? I've not seen a poor artist buy so much quality drink in one sitting before."

"Why do you think I'm poor? Maybe I'm just stingy."

At this, A. Z. Fell laughs, a surprised little thing that Crowley finds unnecessarily endearing, and gestures for one of the glasses. "Well, don't think you'll be getting any past thoughts out of me, my dear. For your trouble, though, I think I can allow you some of my present ones."

The absinthe has not been dubbed "strangling" for nothing; the scent alone is bracing. Still, Crowley has had worse, and he's also very rarely had better.

Fell really is lovely in an antiquated, artful sort of way, like a museum piece that deserves to be hung in a place of prominence. _Look, don't touch_ , it would probably say, but Crowley has always been bad at listening to directions.

As he pours their drinks, he allows his head to tip slightly forward, illuminating the bright gold of his gaze as it bores into Fell. "Lay one on me, then."

"Right now," the man says, tugging his glass closer (and fuck, even the angle of his wrist screams class). "I'm thinking that you have me at a bit of a disadvantage. You, after all, know me, and I have not been afforded the same luxury."

There's a sharpness to those clear blue eyes, a hint of steel and sheets of ice lying dormant just beneath the surface. Crowley hadn't given that away, he thinks, but Fell's tone was not one of someone hazarding a guess.

He's aware of at least a fragment of Crowley's intentions. That would be rather sexy if it weren't a bit terrifying.

"Crowley," he says, because of all things, that's the stupidest thing to lie about. "Portrait artist by trade, busybody by hobby."

It's meant to be joking, but A. Z. Fell nods. "I can tell."

Suddenly Crowley doesn't like the trajectory of this conversation. "Can I have another thought?" he asks, sipping at the absinthe like it's not choking him from the inside out.

Fell smiles, and while Crowley had previously expected it to be all soft comfort, all the wool of a lamb with its eyes covered, there's something all too sharp about it.

Crowley has always been bad at resisting that which is unhealthy.

"I'm thinking that you're rather handsome," A. Z. Fell says, the hint of fangs in his voice. "I have a proposition for you."

Crowley, the idiot, is all ears.


	3. Chapter 3

"A proposition?" Crowley leers. "My, my, Mr. Fell. How indecent of you."

Fell laughs, all tongue and teeth, and downs half his glass in one swallow (a feat that would be less impressive had it been literally any other drink). "My dear, if it were that sort of proposition, I promise you would _know_."

Doesn't that just send the most delicious shivers down Crowley's spine?

"So then, what does that leave us with?"

"A business proposition." A. Z. Fell straightens his waistcoat as he takes another sip of the infernal liquor that Crowley has a hard time getting a mouthful of. "You may or may not be surprised to learn I had quite the storied past as a hired hand for expeditions in the Forgotten Quarter. Muscle, to be exact."

Dangerous, observant, _and_ a charmer. Perhaps this is how Fell gets away with his honesty. "Contrary to popular belief, sir, I have not actually made a habit of learning the entirety of your life story."

"Ah." Is that disappointment Crowley spots? "Well, I'm sure I'll enjoy your reactions to my not-so-sordid past all the same."

"Consider me fully enthralled."

"Quite. Regardless, I found myself often accompanying a fellow who styled himself as Gabriel, after the archangel. Not sure how much you would know of him either, you see, as you strike me as neither a scholar nor a churchgoing man, but he's quite renowned in his field. We dug up many a treasure, some of which can be found in a great number of private collections ranging from independent and anonymous businessmen to the Empress herself. As you might expect, I was rewarded quite handsomely, though my fee was actually quite less than might have been standard for such lucrative jobs."

"Seems like a bit of a mistake, if you ask me."

Fell shoots him a withering look that does _not_ spark electricity somewhere in the pit of his stomach, thank you very much. "What a shame I did not have your keen mind to advise me back then, Mr. Crowley."

"Indeed." If a look had been thrilling, the shape of his name bitten out by gleaming incisors is akin to drowning in sensation. "But do continue."

"I will, thank you.

I did not ask for much, if anything, and this more than any of my more pertinent qualifications was what prompted Gabriel to keep me around. I believed in the mission and the man, and often this is a more powerful motive than even the strongest compulsion of greed. All I requested of him was that he keep his eye out for a particular volume of prophecy, one that had not made it onto the Church and Ministry's lists of censored material only because it was believed to be lost."

Crowley snorted. "A book of hogwash? Awfully low asking price. I would have asked for relics. Even the cheapest ones can convince an old bat to give up their treasured jewels for a glimpse."

"I'm not a _con man_ , Mr. Crowley," A. Z. Fell sniffed. "I'm a perfectly respectable gentleman who gets by with a good deal more honor than one might be used to here in the Neath."

"A thousand pardons."

" _Anyway_ , my dear, do stop interrupting me. This was my one request, and, considering my profession, it was by no means an odd one. I enjoy both crafting and words of my own and enjoying those of others, after all. Regardless, Gabriel acquiesced quite graciously, and in this way, we managed quite the cordial working relationship.

Of course, this budding camaraderie between the two of us stopped quite decidedly at business. Though I didn't want to admit it to myself, he was more than a bit ill-tempered, and quite terribly rude to boot. We may both have been men of the Church, but being quite a sight wealthier than I, he managed to be both far more performative and more...discerning as to where that money went.

(His accent was also not that of the rest of the Neath; I don't mean to be uncharitable, but those who choose the Neath when they clearly don't belong on the same continent are not, in my experience, the sort I enjoy spending my time with.)

All of this is to say that while my loyalty to Gabriel may have been more tenuous than would generally be preferred, I still held quite a bit of it, but as it would turn out, he did not feel the same.

That volume of prophecy that I mentioned earlier happens to be the only accurate tome in all of recorded history. It tends to be vague and rather minuscule in nature, but it's a marvel in and of itself. Of course, this made it quite valuable, but I hadn't thought Gabriel would mind, considering that he has no scholarly love for the written word other than what it might bring him personally.

On one quite memorable excursion several months ago, I remember the cry of one of the young men Gabriel had hired specifically for this expedition as he unearthed a book in remarkable condition. I, of course, recognized it immediately, and the moment I confirmed my suspicions and spoke with Gabriel, we ended our venture there, packed up, and headed home.

Though I'd intended to collect the book from him and launch into a thorough examination, he told me that he'd need to run it by the Ministry and the Church to ensure that it would be okay for a respectable citizen of the Neath to obtain and keep. I, of course, could not object, and when he told me over a week later that they'd deemed it morally corrupt, I had no choice but to cut my rather sizable losses."

Here, A. Z. Fell lets out a rather bitter sounding laugh, and Crowley is entranced.

"My dear fellow, I'm certain you can guess the truth of the situation. Gabriel's private collection is the current residence of one copy of _The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch_ , and the man himself is a lying worm. I remain the only person of any skill or influence from our expedition who even knows of the book, and as I'm certain you have by now fathomed, I would very much like it back."

"And if you expose him?"

"Assuming I could even pull that off, considering his numerous...friends in both establishments, the book would likely be subject to the exact fate he claims has already befallen it. I will not mourn it twice."

Crowley can smell a good score from a kilometer away, can suss out business opportunities like a bloodhound, and right now, though it looks like the biggest con he'd ever pull off, that incessant longing tugs at him, begs him to answer the call. "And why ask me?"

A. Z. Fell looks befuddled by this for a moment, as though he himself hadn't quite considered his reasoning before this very moment, and for a second, that lethal intensity is stripped away. For that briefest of breaths, Crowley can't bring himself to look away. "I'm not quite certain. Perhaps you simply have that air of competence and discretion to you. I find myself loath to trust many these days."

He cannot help the flutter of his heart, nor the grin that climbs across his lips.

"And perhaps it's that, should it be necessary, you pose little threat to me."

At that, Crowley really does laugh, a loud, high cackle that draws attention and instantly rejects it. Not because he disbelieves Fell, but rather because he wholeheartedly trusts that he speaks the truth.

"Consider yourself as having made quite the advantageous deal then, Mr. Fell."

Fell grins, and the softness of his mouth and the sharpness of his smile make for a delightful contrast. "It will be a pleasure to work with you, Mr. Crowley."


	4. Chapter 4

They make plans to meet again at the carnival. All sorts roam around there, from the urchins that work for Mrs. Plenty, stealing just-bought tickets from unsuspecting pockets to return to their mistress, to the high Society sorts slumming it in the Big Top. Crowley has his preferences out of the lot - not for nothing do some of the brats call him Prince Prig and then angle for coppers in the same breath - but he can fit in where needed, knows how to scandalize just enough to delight.

Today, however, he's not here for the atmosphere. Today, he's here for the company of one very particular man.

Where better to conduct business than a place where _nobody_ wants to be seen?

A. Z. Fell is a sight to be seen among the colored lights of the carnival, lit by all the splendor of the Neathbow. Even if the pale arms of irrigo reach him, Crowley is certain that he'll never forget him in this perfect moment of his approach, framed by the terribly beautiful chaos that is all London has to offer.

"Something caught your eye, angel?" he asks, sidling up like it's the natural next step in their acquaintanceship. "Busy place, this."

Fell raises a finely groomed brow at the nickname but doesn't contest it. There are far worse names to be called, after all. Good job, that; Crowley would prefer not to examine his psyche too closely. "My pockets, I expect. Rather a sight more visible urchins than I'm used to, and I think that makes them bold."

Neither of them acknowledges that the grimy pests are more prevalent than the rats, as that goes without saying.

"You're sure that Gabriel of yours won't come 'round here? Popular place, this is," Crowley asks instead.

A. Z. Fell gives him the most withering look a man that has just deftly caught a child trying to pickpocket him can. "That's rather the whole point, my dear boy."

"Fair enough." Crowley makes a face at the urchin, who sticks their tongue out in response. "Try liftin' from a proper provendor next time, kiddey, and here's a bit o' milk if you take a hike."

"As you like, Your Highness!" the brat squeals, dashing off with the moon-pearls, and Crowley straightens to apologize only to find that Fell doesn't seem irritated at the interruption. In fact, he seems more amused than anything.

"Know a bit of the thieves' cant, do we?" he asks, but the honest to somebody twinkle in his eye says he knows the answer.

"Didn't come out of the womb as a devastatingly handsome artist, you know."

If anything, Fell seems inordinately pleased by this. "I should certainly hope not. And to answer your question, my dear, Gabriel has never been much for places like this. Bit too much fun and merriment for him, I expect."

There is something incredibly wondrous about the disdain Fell has for his former employer, and Crowley can't help but be a little bit intoxicated by the casual derision.

A light pops and bursts, glass shattering behind Fell's head, and for a moment, the indelible color seeps out into the air, haloing him with purest viric, and Crowley really can see how it's the stuff of dreams.

"Do we have a plan already?" he asks, heart climbing up his throat in a way he is only mostly sure isn't literal. "Or is this a bit of the stakeout sort?"

Fell seems entirely unbothered by the chaos around him, by the flecks of the Neathbow that are settling into his spun-sugar hair as balloons pop and sparklers fizzle and explode. He _is_ an angel, and a far sight better one than whatever the Church is preaching nowadays.

"I still know his estate quite well, all things considered," Fell says, as though he has no idea what his very being has done to Crowley. Maybe he doesn't; maybe Crowley should be more cautious. "And for now, I suppose we have the advantage as long as I can convincingly maintain my facade."

Fell wrinkles his nose at this, and who the fuck allowed an _academic_ to be this damned adorable? "I take it you're not much for acting," Crowley replies. He's far less certain that his heart isn't making a break for it.

"I'm a fan of the theatre when I'm not a participant. Still, I think I should have something else to occupy my time, to soothe the sting, as some might say."

"And your writing doesn't do that for you?"

Fell sighs and Crowley discovers with not a small amount of chagrin that he hates the sound. "I'm afraid writing is something I've been able to do without much regard to my well-being. Our...mutual friend may be dense, but even he would notice if I deviated too obviously from the routine I've built over our acquaintanceship. I'm a creature of habit, if you hadn't noticed."

Crowley _had_ noticed, between the regular hours kept at the Singing Mandrake and the impeccable, if rather out of fashion outfits.

"So something new would be the only successfully convincing way to persuade him that I've gotten over our mutual interest. I've always been rather relentless in my pursuit of new pleasures."

Crowley's throat dries around a swallow. "Are you now?"

A. Z. Fell smiles, all long-forgotten sunshine. "Oh yes, my dear boy. A bit like a pack of hounds after a hapless rabbit."

Crowley should be thinking about the job and _only_ the job - Fell had promised quite a lucrative reward, after all - but the gears in one _hapless_ redhead's head turn on multiple levels. 'And what is it that you're missing, Mr. Fell?"

"Pardon?"

"What do you not have that would be so time-consuming as to distract you from your previous interest so thoroughly?"

Fell's eyes light up, and for a brief moment, as that sun-bright smile turns blinding, he clasps Crowley's arm in one hand. "Brilliant, my dear boy!" He sharpens into something almost wolfish. "Shall we adjourn to my home, then? We have the finer points of our new friendship to work out."


	5. Chapter 5

Perhaps unsurprisingly, A. Z. Fell has lodgings on the outskirts of the Garden, closer to Hood's Bridge and the University than the riotous cheer of the penny theatres and the pleasure houses. Crowley tries to picture this man, all Surface light and well-manicured propriety, next to someone like Sinning Jenny and finds that he cannot.

Oh, what a delightful image that might have been, though.

They aren't furtive, by any stretch of the imagination. After all, they are simply two men with a fascinating new acquaintanceship, and if Gabriel has men watching, they want to leave no other impression. The Neath air is only pleasantly damp tonight, a far cry from the usual looming feeling of crawling rot, and in a sudden flight of fancy, Crowley finds himself certain that it's Fell's presence that has caused foul winds to retreat.

It takes no more than a few seconds for Fell to open his door, but Crowley notes the spinning dial, the faint scratches of notches well disguised, and feels fairly certain that it would take nothing short of a Master to break into the other man's flat. Then Fell is ushering him in, and he has little choice but to halt his musings, at least for the moment.

There are books everywhere. Perhaps that shouldn't have been as big of a shock as it felt, but the theoretical knowledge of passion is one thing, and being confronted with the physical evidence of that same passion is another entirely. If they have an organizational pattern, Crowley is at a loss as to what that might be. There are a few particularly infamous journals he recognizes, whether by rumor or by familiarity, as well as a few lurid tales of terror, but for the most part, there is a treasure trove of untapped knowledge contained in a relatively small area.

In a word, it's astonishing.

"I'd ask that you forgive me for the mess, but I'm afraid it always looks like this." Contrary to his words, Fell doesn't look at all abashed by this, and Crowley supposes he can understand why. His new...partner seems to either own or rent several rooms, and if he himself could fill them with so much of value, he would be proud, too.

"No need to clean up on my account," he says instead. "At least yours is nice. You wouldn't believe what some of my clients' rooms look like."

A. Z. Fell turns up his nose in a way that Crowley would have hated another man for. Instead, he finds himself rather charmed. "I'm certain I don't want to imagine. Now, I'm being a terrible host. Do you want anything to drink?"

Crowley produces a bottle of Greyfields '82 seemingly from nowhere, relishing the way Fell lights up at the sight.

"Oh, my dear, you really didn't have to!" Still, he's quick with the corkscrew and the glasses, as though Crowley might change his mind at the smallest provocation. "It _is_ a delightful vintage, even if it's a bit common, isn't it?"

Crowley just nods, keeping his snort of laughter to himself. "Figured we can't get down to business without a drink in hand."

It's the wrong thing to say, somehow, and Fell deflates momentarily, as though he's forgotten that Crowley _isn't_ just a friend who brings drinks and good company. Shame curls in the pit of his stomach like a viper, and, not for the first time in his lives, he regrets opening his mouth.

"Of course. How wonderfully thoughtful of you." Fell's posture has not slipped once since Crowley has known him, but he recognizes the looseness that had lived in the careful cast of his arms only once it's gone. "I do hope you're amenable to the idea we seem to have agreed upon. I believe I understood what you were getting at, but if you find that uncomfortable, just say the word."

How does Crowley confess that the only discomfort he feels is with the idea that there's nothing he wants more? "You understood me correctly," he says instead. "Nothing like companionship to distract us from all the fucking problems we have, right, angel?"

Fell laughs, more a quirk of lips and a soft breath of air than anything heartier, but it brings a more genuine tilt to Crowley's smile all the same. "That's the idea, yes. How do you suppose we met properly? It's more than obvious that our meeting in the Singing Mandrake was our first proper encounter, but how did we determine what we had in common?"

"I have a book of your poetry at home," Crowley offers, abruptly aware of how that makes him look. He's not a simpering fan - except isn't that what he's been acting like? "Maybe I offered to paint companions to some of your works?"

Fell looks genuinely delighted by this, as though he hadn't expected anyone to have actually _read_ what he's written. Any sharpness is gone, smoothed over by joy, and the viper that makes its home in Crowley's guts raises its head in anticipatory excitement.

 _Down, girl_ , he hisses to it. _Don't go getting ahead of yourself_.

"Oh, my dear boy, you must tell me which one! I do hope it's not the nature collection. Following the whims and trends of my contemporaries can be so terribly dull." Fell's babbling soothes something raw and vulnerable, and Crowley manages to relax even further into nonchalance, perched as he is on a wobbly stool and leaning against the wall.

"It's one of your first, actually, the one you apparently gave away in front of the University. I didn't realize war and romance were your things, angel."

Fell lights up even further, if that's even possible. "Oh, I _am_ rather proud of that one, even after all this time. If only I hadn't lent out my copy! I would have enjoyed learning what you'd liked, I suspect."

With an uncomfortable clearing of his throat, Crowley begins to recite;

" _The gate long shut --_

_get up and throw it wide;_

_the stag long fled --_

_send him to my side._

_When one day you come_

_to lie between my breasts,_

_that day your scent_

_will cling to me like wine."_

_"How shall I know his face, O lovely bride,_

_the lover you are asking me to send?_

_A ruddy face with lovely eyes,_

_a handsome man to see?_

_"Yes, that's my love! Yes, that's my friend!_

_Anoint that one for me!_

For a moment after Crowley finishes, there is nothing but silence between them, and then A. Z. Fell swipes a hand beneath his eyes (delicately, always so delicately).

"I've butchered it, haven't I?"

"Not at all, my dear. I dare say you caught my meaning quite well."

"So," Crowley says, hands shaking in a manner he can't quite process. "I think I can speak to appreciating your works quite well."

There is nothing wolfish in the look Fell gives him now. "And I, flattered as I would naturally be by such an occurrence, agreed without much of a thought. We find ourselves never short of philosophies to expound upon and debate, and the rest, as they say, is history."

Crowley nods, fumbling for the neglected bottle of wine with not a small amount of haste, finally pouring them both a glass. "History."

The word tastes better coming from Fell than it has ever seemed from his own mouth.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> terribly sorry, meant to post this yesterday, but i had to sleep.
> 
> this (theoretically) early update brought to you by lark!

Fell's mouth goes through approximately seven different shapes before he lands on the one that is actually proper to start his intended sentence with. Crowley would laugh, except he is just as drunk and at least doubly as stupid. Between the dreadful, delightful tang of the Greyfields and the capacity this _angel_ has for striking him dumb, it's a wonder that he hasn't been permanently rendered mute.

"And have you sea... seen that goat demon the fellows at the dock are always moon... moaning about?" Fell's eyes are alive with a sort of joy that can only be found three bottles down or with a spoonful of honey, and they haven't even reached the bottom of this first one - though it's a near thing. He's just like that, it seems, excitable when given the chance to be and painfully clever, and it's not a hardship to admit that Crowley finds him beautiful, at least in the privacy of his own mind. "Great big bugger, he is."

"'S not polite to say," Crowley giggles, and really, that _ought_ to be embarrassing. "Might get in _trouble_."

Honest to whatever passes for God, A. Z. Fell giggles right back. "We should probe... probably sober up a bit, shouldn't we?"

"Boo." Still, he's right, even if Crowley likes this companionable silence, interspersed with comments that probably won't seem so funny come morning. "I _like_ the fungus in my brain."

This sends them off again, fits of laughter that won't be denied regardless of actual merit or cleverness.

There is something to this quiet between them, a camaraderie that should be alarming considering how little they know each other. Crowley should be afraid, should be on guard and considering what Fell has to gain from getting him so pliant. Everyone has an agenda, and he is no exception. Christ, even now, they're planning to fleece an influential member of the Church. There is nothing about this that screams trust, except perhaps that it's certain to be broken, but with the agaric sourness of the wine drying his tongue and making his head spin, Crowley doesn't feel much like making the right decision.

Especially when the wrong decision smiles at him with pearls instead of ice, soft and precious. Crowley may be wily, but he has never claimed to be smart.

Somehow, he's managed to flip himself upside down, and it's with only minimal dizziness that he sees a spark of clarity return to Fell's vision.

"I'm fairly certain I have one of Gebrandt's elixirs somewhere," he says, and now that he's clearly focusing very hard, the worst of the slur has dropped form his voice. "It's supposed to help with drawing the intoxication from your body."

"Seems safe," Crowley drawls, eyes tracking Fell with the sort of intensity that might have gotten him in trouble had he been down at the docks or upon the hill. _Predatory_ might have been the appropriate word, had there been any malintent behind it, but as it is, there is not a bad feeling in his bones anymore.

"Safe as life." Fell is not stumbling, though he moves with the sort of concentrated stiffness that says he is trying very hard. "Do you want some?"

"Only if you go first."

Fell laughs again, and though there is less of the high bells that had marked his earlier looseness, it's still far more musical than any _business partner_ should have the right to be. "I suppose that's only fair, my dear."

He downs half the bottle like he's taking a shot from the bar of one of the Garden's grimier establishments, and Crowley is entranced. "Any good?"

"Good lord, that is foul. Still, there's alertness to his posture that hadn't been there before, as though he'd been wilting and had finally gotten the taste of water. "Your turn, then?"

"Hardly encouraging." Still, by the time he rights himself enough that he can actually take a damn sip, he's almost fallen on his head twice, so maybe it's a necessary evil.

"Don't be a child, Crowley."

And the taste is _unholy_ , like mushy spider eggs and distilled rat guts, but he's perking up regardless, so he supposes fair is fair. " _Fuck._ "

"Language, please." Still, Fell doesn't actually seem all that perturbed, at least until he sees the clock they've both been aggressively neglecting. "Oh goodness, is that really the time? I suppose I'm due to write at our favorite establishment soon. I do like my routines, after all, and if you leave any later...well, I've certain that _that's_ not quite the impression we want to give off."

 _Maybe you don't_ , hisses that traitorous viper, and Crowley mentally swats at it. "I have portraits to be working on as well, unless I want half of the shady folk of the Garden knocking down my door. Meanwhile, I'll try to poke around the Embassy, see what I can find out about your Gabriel, yeah?"

That businesslike cold had started to settle, but at the mention of the Embassy, it flies away, and A. Z. Fell seems closer to alarm than anything else. "Devils? My dear, perhaps you ought to start somewhere a little safer."

Crowley flaps a hand at him as he gathers his things, casual like the thought of all that too warm brass doesn't send his skin crawling. "I know a lot of the old guard, and I haven't lost my soul yet. Besides, some of the bastards down there owe me a favor or two."

Fell seems far from convinced, but he doesn't argue. "You don't..." he trails off, miming a spirifier's fork and a truly inspired rendition of a soul being removed.

" _Hardly._ Too much skulking about, and I'm made to be seen."

"You're _something,_ alright." Regardless of what he thinks about Crowley's previous friendships, though, this satisfies him, though, and he leads him to the all too complicated door without any further protests. "Take care on your way home, my dear boy. Try not to get into too much trouble."

It's with the memory of the wry smile that accompanies those words that warms Crowley as he makes his way home, dodging scammers and pickpockets with practiced ease, and even the thought of working on Hastur's vile visage doesn't seem quite so bad.


	7. Chapter 7

Slipping past the watchers of Ladybones Road is not as difficult as it might have been for someone who hadn't been doing it for years, and the angular, shadowed figure that Crowley cuts more than helps with that.

Everyone is jagged here.

The Church's hold on the people of London is far more fragile than it might like to believe; sin has always bred better beneath the Surface, whether in reference to the whole or the one. Still, it's not for nothing that it's the powerful or the ostentatious who tend to flock there, and the devils, being hereditary enemies, are usually more than happy to rid any prominent members of their illusions of nobility.

The Ministry will be a sight more difficult, naturally, considering their far less... moral leanings. Law and morality are, after all, not so closely intertwined as they would have the citizens of the Neath believe, and there is a particular sort of enjoyment they take in loopholes and underhanded tricks. These, of course, are also the favored weapons of Hell's denizens (if one discounts the burning brands of their bodies or that irresistible hypnotism), and it will be far harder to drive a wedge between this more unified front.

Luckily, Crowley isn't going in wholly unprepared.

He hadn't lied to A. Z. Fell, of course. There are more than a few soul-leeches here that would recognize him on sight, some who even still keep him around for portrait commissions or revelry. He'd be stupid to assume that he can still judge their motives and intentions as well as he'd been able to then, but it's much more than the average person has, and he's not one to discount an advantage. Forever an optimist, he is.

His other tool is, of course, what he does best: make trouble. It's why the bastards had liked him so much, after all; they never could resist a good opportunity for scandal, and Crowley has a way of creating it wherever he goes.

The rest of it is just a game of bluffs and checks. He's got dirt on about twenty different Ministry officials of varying levels of importance, not to mention a few souls sewn safely into the pockets of his sleek jacket, purposefully shabby in the way that artists tend to be these days.

Fashion and presentation are their own kind of power, of course, and Crowley needs all the help he can.

He passes the entrance to the Clay Quarters with little more trouble than a dirty look from a Clay Man with an unmended crack in his face - not Unfinished, but not clean, either - and suppresses the shiver that tries to crawl down his spine. How long has it been since he last passed into the cold maw of the Brass Embassy? He remembers cloying smiles and clawing hands, compliments that had meant so much to him and insults that had meant more.

Spidery gold scars that have almost faded in body if not in mind still stretch across his back from where a particularly vicious one had staked their claim, furious when they had been outbid for one of his paintings.

They have risen higher these days, he hears, and if it had been any other day, he might have hoped to avoid them. Anyone who cares that little about their appearance clearly has enough power to not need a few extra points in their favor, after all.

Still, it's them who he's come to see above all, so he's not that lucky.

 _Shit,_ what sort of influence does Fell over him that he'll confront his past for a man he hardly knows?

Crowley is so incredibly goddamned stupid, but at least that's a consistency.

The streetlights shine a little dimmer here and the air begins to carry the faint odor of sulfur, but even this clear sign is not enough to deter him. He'd like to say that it's bravery that spurs him on now, despite everything that points to the contrary, but he can't pull that big of a lie off, even to himself.

Perhaps confronting his demons, both literal and figurative, will be good for him, but Crowley has a sneaking suspicion that whatever the outcome, he won't be calling it a victory.

Maybe if he's lucky, he can limp back to Fell's lodgings and lick his wounds with good wine and good company, considering that it's for him that he's enduring this. He's not overly hopeful, of course, but he needs something to cling onto if he's to make his way through this at least mostly intact.

Then he's pushing open those nevercold doors, and for once, the heat doesn't feel good.

"Beelzebub," he calls to the devil manning the desk, who looks about as alarmed to see him saunter in as Crowley feels. "Where are they?"

If Beelzebub is their real name, Crowley wouldn't be surprised, spiteful bitch that they are. Besides, it's not like anyone would take advantage of this; despite the motif and the literal swarm that follows them, they've been the spider at the center of a massive web for as long as he's known them.

This unknown devil draws himself upright as though he's got nothing to fear from the man before him. "Beelzebub is not to be disturbed."

Crowley flashes the last gift of the devils to him, and he's admitted with hardly another intelligible syllable.

The stairs are many and the halls labyrinthine, but he knows his way like he'd never left, and even if that means he hates himself a little for it, all the better for the snickering shadows that haunt these halls. He won't show it, though; he hasn't spent so long crafting every inch of his persona and facade for nothing, after all.

 _Never tell anyone what it is you want from them,_ Beelzebub had told him once in a rare show of something almost like kindness.

He would be sure to follow this advice to the letter.

Beelzebub's office facade has not changed much such last he saw it - like them, it is harsh and not so much gilded as forged - but the memories don't stop him from raising his hand and letting his knuckles rap almost lackadaisically against cold steel and warm brass. It swings open on an invisible signal, and with all the casual confidence he can muster, he steps over the threshold.

"Look who it is," they hiss, too many teeth in their welcoming smile. "What business do you have for me? I thought we had parted for good, Six."

 _Six._ Six sides to the average die. Six substitutes for a meal made of himself. Six times he had won.

These kinds of wins could only be temporary, though.

"You know I could never stay away," he drawls, hitching the corner of his mouth up in what he knew looked like a lazy, serpentine grin. "Besides, business is never better than when it's done with you, Beez."

They laugh like knives plunging into squishy, yielding organs, but Crowley very carefully does not flinch. Rule number one of gambling with high stakes: know that you don't belong at the table. Rule number two: act as though you do.

"And why should I even bother?" they ask, a fly crawling from their mouth. "I don't need to give you anything to get whatever information I want."

Crowley pulls six bottled souls from the inside of his jacket and lines them up in front of the fevered eyes of the creature he loathes. "For the chance to catch up with an old friend, of course," he says.

Their eyes light up with a keen hunger, even as that knife-smile turns its sights on him. "And are these conditional as well?"

"Hardly. I would have found something truly astounding if I were using incense as a bargaining chip."

"And it's the Church you want to talk about?"

"I've always been the picture of piety, haven't I?"

And maybe it's just a trick of the light, but for the first time, Beelzebub seems to see that Crowley is not the same man he had been when he'd left the Brass Embassy.

Now, Crowley has fangs too, and they more than match the other nickname the devils had given him, long before they left their permanent mark.

_Snake eyes._


	8. Chapter 8

"So what is it that you need, Six?" Beelzebub asks, and if they can see right through his glasses to the heart of him, then Crowley really wouldn't be surprised. " _Secrets_ is such a general request, after all. Surely there's something else you would come to me for?"

"Certain bastards with important friends have been making it hard for me and mine, yeah?" He lets his gift pierce into them for the briefest of moments, and if they are surprised that he no longer flinches away from it, then they disguise it all too well. "Everyone with a little sense knows that it's the righteous with the most to hide. I want some dirt on the big players, plain and simple."

"And the quality of your little offering?"

"The offering? Have at it, drink them all right now if you want, if that's what you do, no skin off my back. The exchange, though, that's something else entirely. Can't exactly trust you not to sneak a peek, can I?"

This laugh is the sound of a million flies screeching in tandem, and again, Crowley only just manages to keep himself from reacting. He would lament the wicked game he has once again found himself at the center of, except that he's never left it. It's a lifelong pursuit, after all. "Suppose you can't. And what do you want this information for, exactly?"

He taps the counter with a fingernail, relishing in the way the sharp sound makes their shoulders twitch. It's not weakness, really, but he'll take whatever pseudo-victories he can get. "'S what these are for, isn't it?"

"No deal, Six." Their eyes gleam like malignant stars, swollen and heavy-bellied with stolen blood. "I like to know what my hard-won intel is going to. It makes it easier to be on the winning side."

"Even if you know you'll be clipping angel wings?" He doesn't shift his posture even an inch, but he hides the tension that begins to bloom in his chest at the base of his spine. The success of A. Z. Fell's operation relies on no one knowing of its existence, after all, and there are few people as untrustworthy as the devil before him, even in the Neath.

"Even then. Maybe if that was all it is, but you're bringing good people of the law into this, Six. I can't compromise those brave souls for free." Their smile at this is more like a leer, but it's nothing Crowley hasn't seen before.

At least, that's what he tells himself with dread stealing up through his stomach.

"There are plenty of devils in the Ministry, you know," Beelzebub says, the vibration of their voice like being physically shaken. "Tell me why I should give you anything that might cause them... undue stress."

"Where was this care and concern while I was here, Beez?" Crowley tilts his head back in a careless laugh, exposing his throat in what would certainly be interpreted as a derogatory action.

Even if he's afraid, and both of them know that to be the case, he can at least muddy the waters.

"With what I'll give you, you can warn whoever you'd like. They'll be more than prepared for any fallout that might occur."

"And if I fed you falsehoods, told the angels and lawmen you'd been sniffing around after them?"

"I've always been a gambling man, you know." He bares his teeth in another vicious grin.

It's in this way that he knows he has them.

"Give me what you gave, then," they say, eyes glowing in the light of the flaring souls before them. "I believe we have ourselves a deal."

* * *

It's easier to skulk through Ladybones Road as Crowley returns home, pockets lighter but for the weight of a bottle of sherry he had pilfered on his way out. Besides Beelzebub, he'd managed to miss most of the faces he'd remembered from his stay in the suites of the Embassy, and other than those he had stopped for initial questioning, his exit from that nevercold hellscape had been efficient and swift.

All in all, it had been the best trip to an old prison that he could have expected.

Now, though, he wants to get absolutely drunk beyond all reason, tired and itchy with old memories as he is, and there is only one place to properly do that without being banned for life.

Avoiding the battered cobblestone that would lead him to the border of the Garden and Spite, Crowley follows the faint smell of saltwater and the zee, spine creaking with the dissolution of leftover tension. If he lets his hips swing with even more wild abandon than usual, that's fine; right now, he doesn't mind being seen.

There's more haphazard wooden patchwork to the streets he approaches the docks, where drunk workers and hyper-aggressive pit creatures have smashed through stone and mortar. The streetlights cast the grand in uneven shadow, and idly, he wonders how anyone can even properly manage to walk even when sober.

Maybe that will be a problem for the Crowley of the wee hours of the morning, but for now, he balances without a second thought and craves the sewage the Cheery Man calls alcohol like a physical need.

The Medusa's Head sits creaky and bright on the hill overlooking the docks, and compared to the mess of wire, wood, and scrap metal that the surrounding buildings boast, it's clear that it remains well-maintained. Not for nothing do its patrons refrain from causing too much damage within its walls, and were it a different day, one where Crowley couldn't still feel scalding hands upon him through his clothes, he might have tried to finagle an audience with its owner.

All things in time, though. For now, he just needs a heavy tankard of whatever ale will stay down the longest; he isn't any more optimistic than that.

When he pushes the door open, there is the heady sound of a fight ready to break out, and he wonders if he can get a good seat, whether it's the betting sort.

Then he sees who stands in the middle of the crowd, shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbow and grinning wildly, and swears viciously.


	9. Chapter 9

A. Z. Fell has blood that is not his own on his lip.

From a distance, it's hard to make this out, but between the near cherry crimson that stains his mouth and the seemingly smooth skin beneath, whatever trouble he's gotten himself into seems to be of the variety he can also get out of.

Crowley weaves through the jeering crowd as Fell's opponent swings and misses again, and desperately hopes that the naked thrill this sends through him isn't visible anywhere but in his eyes, now firmly concealed behind his glasses once again. If he filches a drink from an onlooker rather than buy his own, it's only because he needs it far more than any other drunk here.

 _Dangerous (adjective): able or likely to cause harm or injury._ The way that Fell fights here, a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes and a gaze that hurts worse than any blade even when Crowley isn't on the receiving end of it stretching across his face, as though wounds don't matter as long as he wins... It's intoxicating.

"Really now, my dear boy," Fell says, and Crowley's gaze strays to the muscle of his forearms, more like a weapon than flesh. "I'm certain you didn't learn to fight _here._ You'd be holding your own much more easily if you remembered to guard your face, you know."

The patrons of the Medusa's Head jeer at that, and Crowley can tell that these fights are second nature to him, his showmanship as deeply embedded into him as the blows themselves. _Here is another facet of this fascinating man,_ the viper hisses from her nest in the coils of his intestines. _Here is something new to discover and lay your loving claim on. Go on._

He takes a long sip of the pilfered alcohol instead. What does this damnable figment of his imagination know, anyway?

Fell's opponent fakes a punch, then sends his knee seeking the softness of Fell's side. It almost connects; as though teasing, Fell catches the offending appendage in one hand and tugs, catching the man off balance and sending him crashing to the ground. Crowley's heart, such as it is, is lodged in his throat.

As though he can sense the nature of his newest friend's thoughts, Fell looks up then, tilting his head as though to discern where those heavy eyes he must feel on his face have come from. When that piercing blue meets the lenses of Crowley's shades, Fell grins even as he wipes the blood from his lips.

Has there ever been anything more deeply erotic than that? What a shame that Crowley doesn't loathe him.

_Dangerous (adjective): likely to cause problems or to have adverse consequences._

That seems to fit the flip of his stomach when Fell waves at him perfectly.

"Ho there, friend!" he cries joyfully, but when the man at his feet reaches for his ankle, he stomps down on the hand with a sickening _crack._ "How has your day been?"

The zailors that had been so intent on the fight moments before shift, their attention dropping back to cards and booze. Some of them eye Crowley as if to size him up, but he raises his cup to A. Z. Fell only. Besides, better to avoid accidental conflict when he's far better in a fight when he's coming at his opponent from behind. "As charming as they all are," he says, downing the rest of his foul liquor.

Some pitiful zeeman laughs at that, but the cold glance that Fell gives the bastard as he strides over mitigates the urge to flash the gift of the devils at him.

Fell hasn't seen it, has he, the permanent reminder of what Crowley was and what he's lost? Maybe the warmth that spreads across his jovial face would fade away at the sight of what lies beneath this facade that is built more for him than anyone else Crowley has ever known.

It's not like he's shy about showing it off, either. He's intimidated more people of various numbers of appendages with it than he can count. Still, there's no denying how it was that he gained it in the first place, the ugly disloyalty that burns within it, searing him more effectively than any brand.

Somehow, he thinks that Fell would disapprove, and that's the last thing he wants, right now or ever.

"Apologies that you had to see me looking so undignified," Fell continues, as though Crowley's internal drift is not visible in the slackening of his mouth or the tilt of his head. Maybe it isn't, he's had enough practice disguising that, after all. "The zailors enjoy pitting me against fresh blood, as it were, and I must confess that the Cheery Man's offer of some of his more top-shelf drink is a more than adequate temptation."

"Can't say I blame you," Crowley replies, hoping that the shape he's tugged himself, his very appearance, into now speaks more of casual interest than whatever it was that he'd just pulled. Somebody alive, but he's off his game right now, and what a dangerous prospect that is. "You've missed a spot, though."

Not that he particularly minds seeing A. Z. Fell, who anyone could tell at a glance is beyond fastidious, with his face flushed and blood dotting his face, shirtsleeves still rucked up, but marginally tidier now, over muscular forearms. It's just that _Fell_ probably minds, so Crowley is being a good friend.

"Oh, have I? Would you be a dear and get it for me?"

Is this a flirtation? The whiplash of this day is going to break his neck. Crowley fishes a plain handkerchief from one of his pockets, and, with hands that he hopes don't tremble too obviously, he tilts Fell's face and wipes at the spatter of blood high on his cheekbone. It does little more than smear, but it's passable at this point, and nerves are sparking through his fingertips as palpably as the pulsation of any machinery.

"That's the worst of it," he says, and has his voice gone husky? What a damn harlot he has turned out to be; he might find it funny if this weren't so embarrassing. "You'll have to give it a good wash when you return home."

Has he not stopped touching Fell yet? He would have thought it would be impossible to ignore the tandem flush of heat and the ice-cold feel of sweat against dry skin.

When Crowley drops his hands, they don't stop fluttering weakly by his side.

The look in Fell's eyes is nearly inscrutable, shards of diamond and pale sapphire cataloging something that Crowley can't discern. Has he come up short? Fell's mouth purses, but there are a dozen different expressions that could indicate, and Crowley can't tear his eyes away from those lips long enough to judge which it is.

"The both of us should be getting back home, my dear," Fell says. "Busy day tomorrow."

Someone in the Neath has it out for Crowley (well, someone with power), he's certain, for why else would this torture be inflicted upon him?

If there's a touch of melodrama in his thoughts now, he thinks that should be more than understandable.

"Right." No matter how it wants to come out, he halts the hitch in his voice before it has the chance to escape. "See you tomorrow, then."


	10. Chapter 10

There are, one may find, varied and numerous benefits to living close to the center of the Garden. For one, not actually being in the center means that there are very few people who stumble up to Crowley's doorstep, drunk, honey-mazed, or something else entirely. For another, he doesn't actually have to go too far to get to any of the better places of work or the more... rich places of entertainment.

Lastly, it's a hell of a lot better real estate than anywhere in Spite, where he would have had to contend with an infestation of little brats (and rats, come to think of it) seeking to steal his things. Not that he keeps anything important where the average kiddey could find it, but the point remains the same. Life is easier when you aren't waking up to chants of "Prince Prig!" and urchins stealing your blankets for love of warmth.

That is to say, he's no longer accustomed to it, so when a child worms his way beneath the expensive surface silk of his sheets at an ungodly hour, he bolts upright and has a hand on a dagger before either can say so much as a _how are you_.

Not that he would kill a child, of course, but the brat doesn't need to know that.

He recognizes him, though. Soulless since Crowley met him, barely out of infancy, a devil's shill even today, it seems. "Oi, you bawdy basket. Here to cloy or cackle?"

Adam grins, wide-toothed and just as much of a bastard as any child has the right to be and more. "I can sing 's long as you got iron for me."

Crowley lifts a brow, distinctly unimpressed. "And that's what Beelzebub said, eh? Told you to give me nothing if there's no grease in it for you?"

Really, Adam's talents are wasted in the shadows. With the plaintive look he gives so effortlessly, he really ought to be on the stage. "You're well equipt now, Your Highness. Would it hurt to be nice to a natty lad or two?"

"Yes," Crowley grumbles, but he fishes a sapphire out of the lining of his coat - it should not have fit there, and Adam looks on with no small amount of awe - and tosses it to him. "Don't be getting any ideas, though. I don't have to be so nice again."

Adam gives him a stack of papers that had been bound beneath his shirt, and Crowley wonders if he's starting some sort of trend. With a cheerful bow and a stream of curses that would make even a neddy man blush, the boy drops back out the window and swings away with all the grace of a wild thing.

Are kids this odd on the surface? Crowley would bet good money that they are. Rather than ruminate on that, though, he looks at what Beelzebub saw fit to share with him.

He's not a fool, contrary to what he very carefully tries to present. (And alright, marching back into the Brass Embassy wasn't exactly _wise_ , but what else was he supposed to do? _Not_ try his best to help the very handsome and charming man he had only just met?). He knows they will not have given him as much as they know, but that's the cost of reasonable business down here in the Neath.

Still, when he rips open the intricately latched parchment, nearly scorching himself on a bit of the Correspondence in the process, there is far more than he had honestly expected.

He had not named any names when he had made his request for one very simple reason: Beelzebub could not be made to know even an inkling of what A. Z. Fell wanted. Even if they didn't want the book of prophecy for themself - one that Crowley still privately doubted the full truthfulness of - he's certain they would try to lay claim to it just to prevent anyone else, especially him, from having it. A. Z. Fell might be rather astonishing in a fight, but that didn't necessarily mean anything against a devil.

Besides, they really just don't _like_ Crowley, which is fair enough considering he left their employ and thrall, but... Well, they more than made their displeasure known already.

Given all of that, he really hadn't expected much of anything. Maybe a few files he could have recited by heart already, one or two he didn't know if he were lucky, to be sure, but he had expected something more like a slap in the face, literal or otherwise, more than anything else.

Instead, what he sees is a veritable treasure trove of information on many of the more reclusive players of the multifaceted chess match that is life with any meaning down in the Neath. Crowley could _cry_ from the wonders inside, never mind what it will probably cost him in the future.

That is, he could cry until he sees who it is that is so conspicuously missing from the pile.

_Gabriel._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> twitter @kingblaiddyd

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on twitter @kingblaiddyd!
> 
> alternatively, join my good omens server! we are very small right now, but i'd love more people to join
> 
> the code is: gq8x3uV


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